He missed the open deck of masts and sails, but at least he had a window cabin, his health, thank God, and a fair chance of getting home. Still, Cozumel was not the Spice Islands and had been already discovered many times over by everyone from Mayan pillagers to spring break slackers hanging from balconies and parental credit cards. “Young heathens,” he thought. “Every one of them in need of conversion.” Or, failing that, execution. A slight loosening of fingers from railings should be enough.1
Magellan checked the brochure: the layover would be for four hours. Those who wanted to could stay aboard the Carnival cruise ship. Others could “Enjoy one of Cozumel’s premier snorkeling areas with thousands of colorful fish and amazing underwater views accessible right off the beach.”2 Magellan assumed that, to snorkel, he would have to remove his metal helmet or else the “amazing underwater views” might become, for him, permanent.
He reached up and tapped the metal skull that sat on his head and recalled the Battle of Mactan. But Cozumel was not the Philippines. And this was not 1521. The chances of being impaled on a poisonous spear were much less than being offered a cold beer.3 His hand reached up reflexively and lightly touched his shoulder, his fingers tracing the scar.
He had heard the natives here were Christian, that there was no need to convert the Rajah Lapu-Lapus of Mexico. Here, Magellan hoped, there would be no Rajah Lapu-Lapu, he of the markedly un-Christian soul, he of the poisoned arrows and heathen heart—if, in fact, the bastard had even had a heart.4
But Cozumel was not Mactan.5 The natives here came pre-converted and eager to please, happy to serve. And the spices were plentiful he’d been told. Magellan removed the helmet,6 placed it point up beside his Bible, and watched from his cabin window as the Carnival cruise ship approached the island.
Back on board Magellan had the shits. “Montezuma’s Revenge” a crew member had called it. But what had Magellan ever done to Montezuma? “I could see it if I were Cortez.7 Perhaps we all look the same to these natives.8 No, it was probably just the tacos at the beachside bar.” Magellan had known better. But “When in Rome…” the waiter had said, pointing to the Spiced Taco Supreme on a laminated menu.
“Spices, enough with the spices.” Magellan tossed the brochure out of the bathroom, watched it open and flutter to an ignoble landing on a terminally damp tile floor, and proceeded to concentrate on the task at hand. No, not in hand, not that. The shits.
Tonight he was scheduled to sit at the Captain’s table. “I am an admiral!”9 Magellan pronounced as he adjusted his metal hat in the bathroom mirror, making sure the metal point stood perfectly vertical from all directions. “The gringo should be eating at my table. If I had a table.” He looked at the man who shared his cabin. “Tonight I speak only Spanish. Perhaps some Portuguese. You will translate. Be sure the Captain knows that I am an admiral.”
“Will you be wearing your hat, Sir?”
“Yes, Enrique, of course.10 Protection. You can never be sure of lower ranking officers. You remember the mutiny. Drawing and quartering those captains on the beach of Puerto San Julian.”
“And impaling, Sir.”
“Yes, Enrique, ‘and impaling.’”11 Magellan smiled, hastily made the sign of the cross over his heart as if out of habit, then continued: “This Captain—perhaps he, too, has a heathen eye on the admiral’s rank. Is he a Christian, Enrique? Try to find out if he’s a Christian. If not we’ll go to work on him. And make sure the food is properly spiced, but less hot than that on Cozumel. And hand me that brochure off the floor. I’ve got to take a shit. Yes, another shit. Does this point look straight to you?”
“Tell him I can get him a good price on cloves. Ask him if he needs cloves. Who wouldn’t want cloves? … What do you mean he thinks I’m funny? For God’s sake, I’m an admiral. Did you tell him that? … You tell this—” Magellan eyed the nametag on the starched white shirt worn by the man at the head of the table “—this ‘Captain Elcano’ that I am an admiral. … What do you mean he could tell from the hat that I’m something? Something? What thing? What thing does he think I am? Ask him that, Enrique. And pass the salt. This dish needs something.”12
“Oh, dear Jesus, I’ve got the shits again. I swear to my loving God that that Captain is responsible for this, Enrique. Sitting so straight in that stiff white shirt, making sure everyone could see his nametag, see ‘Captain’ right above his name. I told you about his kind. Just like Gasper Quesada and Luis de Mendoza.13 And we know what happened to them, don’t we, Enrique? They, too, were captains, weren’t they? They, too, had ships as good as mine, didn’t they? The Conception and the Victoria. Perfectly fine sailing vessels. But they weren’t admirals, were they, Enrique? Oh, their machinations. Just like this Captain tonight. Oh how their kind want what is yours. Did you see his eyes light up when you told him I was an admiral? You did tell him I was an admiral?”
Enrique began to fan a brochure in Magellan’s direction.
“Oh for Christ’s sake, I’ll close the door if it’ll make you happy.” Magellan, shirtless, sat on the toilet, viewing himself in the mirror on the opposite wall. Again he reached to touch the round scar on his shoulder.14 “These shits will be the death of me yet.”
Magellan yelled through the closed door: “Enrique, I am not well, not well at all!” Then he cracked the door slightly and lowered an already failing voice: “Open the small chest next to my hat. Inside, under the cloves, is some paperwork. On my death your indentureship ends. You will be a free man. Read it, you’ll see. Just don’t get any ideas. Captain Elcano will be in charge. The way I feel right now, you may have to finish this trip without me.”